Dominance
by WolfWarrioress
Summary: -"Defiance was the challenge presented Altair, but instead of shying away from the fire, Altair's natural aggression demanded that he control it." AltairXOC Rated M for language and a lemon! a long one-shot broken into two chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Assassin's Creed or Altair. **This story is rated M for both a lemon and coarse language.** You've been warned.

AN: I blame this sudden inspiration on the release of AC 3. Please note that this story is rated M. There is coarse language in this chapter. If you don't like it, don't read. Initially this was supposed to be just a one-shot, but I decided that it was long enough to just split into 2 chapters for ease. If you're looking for the lemon, feel free just to jump to the bottom half of chapter two. If you want to read this odd bit of character development I've created, feel free to start here. Also, this is the first time I've really jumped into something like this, so reviews would be loved! Thank you.

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_~A shot in the dark  
__A past lost in space~_

_Masyaf, the evening after the assassination of Abu'l Nuqoud…_

In the depths of the night, the towering bastion that housed the Assassin's greatest treasures in the city of Masyaf was largely full of shadows dancing in the flickering glow from the torches. The majority of the inhabitants were sleeping soundly, resting for or from travels and tasks in service of the Creed. Despite the unusually high amount of trained warriors in one place, which generally suggested fear or violence, the Assassins rested well; here, in their stronghold, they were confident that their high walls and the strong mortar between the bricks would not fail them, and even if it did said warriors were never far from their weapons. A few men were awake, of course, guards who stood atop the walls and whose keen eyes watched the ground below carefully, but the bulk of the stone fortress was shrouded in silence.

Within the walls, a different shadow strayed in and out of the light from the flames, one born of restlessness. Altair Ibn-La'Ahad paced through the hallways and library of the citadel, fully dressed in his white robes despite the late hour, weapons strapped in place.

To say that Altair was a bitter man was an understatement. The Creed made men hard. It was simply part of who they were, a natural progression of the lives they led. Training to fight, to kill, to face death daily from an early age left them cynical to the hardships of life; by adulthood most had seen horrors few other people could imagine, and their self-imposed isolation within their Order gave them little to consider besides their next task. It shaped them to be determined and strong, both physically and mentally, to relish in their work as they had nothing else, and it added lines to their faces years before they ought to have appeared.

Still, tonight, his guilt over leaving Malik and Kadar to fend for themselves and more his failure in his mission and punishment by Al Mualim—to be so chastised when everyone _knew_ he had the surest blade!—left him angrier than ever, and he paced with his teeth set in a hard line. Nine lives for his. Part of him was filled with pride at the thought of being worth nine men, but mostly he was frustrated from having all of his hard years of work stripped away from him, and being forced to rise through the ranks and work like a novice again. Not, of course, that he wasn't capable of performing the tasks set for him—if a lowly _novice_ could do it, he could. At least now the familiar weight of his hidden blade had been returned to his left arm and his sword to his hip. Being without weapons left him feeling naked in a way his bare skin never had.

He wanted to be active, to drown out the thoughts plaguing his mind, to be outside the walls, moving, finding a new target, lunging for the kill, relishing in the feeling of his toned body hurtling across gaps from roof top to roof top that made lesser men hesitate. Altair had not hesitated, had not feared, in many years. But Al Mualim's word held him in place, confined him. Everything was so simple when he was killing. It was the one thing he understood above all other things in life, the one thing he had perfected, that had shaped his life and remained a constant even when all other things changed. In the movements of his body he could free his mind, concentrate on the task, let his world shrink to the moment and all other thoughts cease. Death followed the Assassins as closely as their own shadows.

Another shadow moved in the night, and the Assassin whirled, his highly tuned instincts reacting instantaneously to anything that could be perceived a threat. There had been no sound to announce the approach of someone else, but nevertheless he came to stop with his hidden blade touching the skin of a woman's neck. Niari Ahabhan stood only a few feet behind him, face perfectly calm and unnervingly void of emotion, the way it always was. She was not dressed in her own white robes however, but in a dress with a neckline that was indecently low—and which captured his attention for much longer than he would have hoped. With a sigh forced through his teeth, annoyed, and a strained relaxation of his shoulders, Altair loosened his stance, straightening and sheathing his blade.

"I could have _killed_ you," he growled quietly, both because his voice was always gravelly and in deference to those who could sleep around them.

"I knew you would not," she replied in that infuriating, calm, confident way she had that seemed to know him better than he knew himself. "Your body is fast, Altair, but undoubtedly your mind is just as sharp as your blade. I knew you would recognize me before you struck. It's late. Why are you awake?"

"I could ask you the same question," he retorted, crossing his arms. "You reek of alcohol."

Her face moved for the first time, one corner of her lips pulling up into the barest of smiles. "It lingers from the breath of the scum I was sent to pull secrets out of, not my own. I am as sober as you are." Her eyes narrowed. "Or have you turned to drink to drown your sorrows?"

Altair scoffed. "Oh, so you were whoring around for the master again?"

Her shoulders tightened impeccably. "I have many skills, most of which you are aware of, Altair." She dared lean close to him and poked her index finger into his chest. "However, know this: I never bedded a man I did not _choose_ to." She gave him a fierce glare, and then she left, stepping delicately around him and melting into the darkness on silent feet. He couldn't help admiring her tenacity and the slender curve of her waist as she walked away.

It was rare for women to take the Creed. The harsh truth was that the lifestyle and the physical feats required by the sworn members simply were not ones a woman could perform. Still, there were a few. Niari was one of these, having been brought into the order at the tender age of thirteen—though she had looked two or three years older. She had not started out with a blade and training, of course. Initially the skills that had made her valuable were her slim waist and budding curves, her quietness of foot and fingers that loosened purses as easily as her bosom loosened tongues. She had a knack for the words that would lead to the outcomes she wanted; her acting skills could fool many of the Assassins themselves; and she had the advantage of her gender: most saw her and immediately dismissed her as a threat. If she had stopped to review her past, she probably would have had a few regrets in the ways she had used her body to get what she wanted, but Niari did not dwell on the past. It was of no concern to her, nor could it offer her anything save lessons she had paid dearly to learn, which made her wise beyond her years to the ways of the world. She was quite pleased with her station in life.

The blades had been a natural progression of her skills. She had gradually gone into more and more dire situations, until finally she was the only one in a position for the sort of quiet assassination that was required. And then she had been taught a hundred different ways to slip a blade into a man's body such to kill him. Further training had followed that naturally as well, until she was considered as much of an Assassin as one of the men, and sparred with them in the training pits. It was her lone lament that she could not sacrifice the ring finger on her left hand and wield the hidden blade that was the Assassin's trademark tool, a weapon that would have saved her trouble many times, but that would have been a flaw too noticeable when she used her body to tempt men. Still, her blade work with the short blade was respected. Niari could never hold her own in an honest fight—the men were stronger and had height on her. But she had silence and grace and speed on her side, and that combination of rare elements made her irreplaceable among the Assassin's ranks.

Finally feeling exhausted, Altair turned and stalked back to his rooms, collapsing on his bed for at least a few hours of rest before the sun came rushing across the landscape to shine in his window.

___~And where do I start?  
The past and the chase~_

_Masyaf, the evening after the assassination of Garnier de Naplouse…_

With a hiss that would have scared a snake and multiple curses under his breath, Altair stood in the middle of his room, trying to remove his robes as gingerly as possible. His undertaking today had been a success, of course, but as he eliminated the targets Al Mualim set for him, the rest of the Templars became more guarded, and he found it harder and harder to sneak around the populated cities that had formerly been easy to infiltrate. The number and skill of the guards had increased as well, and hence his white robes were stained with blood around a large gash in the flesh of his left shoulder. Initially adrenaline had blocked out the pain; but now that he was back in the fortress and his report to the master complete, removing his robes was a chore as the blood had dried them to his skin, and in the process of undressing he tore his wounds open afresh. Worse still was the shallower cut across back which he could not quite see or reach.

The tall assassin was distracted from his troubles by the slight creak of his door opening, and he turned to glare at Niari as she stepped inside his room wearing her own white robes, albeit with her hood thrown back and her weapons missing. Somehow even loose robes could not hide the slender curve of her waist, he managed to note through anger born from embarrassment, and he decided not to dwell on it.

"What do you want? I'm busy," he demanded gruffly, shrugging his shoulder and regretting it with a wince.

"I saw your injuries as you returned," she said quietly. She hefted a small basket he hadn't noticed was perched on her shoulder. "I brought you some things." And just like that, she walked into his room completely at ease, straight to the lone table and began unpacking things from the basket: linen bandages and healing salves. He was irked at the way she seemed to simply take over his room as if it was hers but he wasn't really in the mood to argue, and as much as he would never admit it, he needed some help with the cut on his back. He realized she had never actually said the word 'help', knowing he would rebel against that. She really did know him better than he knew himself.

He was too caught up in his thoughts and she too light of foot to realize she had walked up to him until she had grasped his good arm to direct his body where she wanted him. Firmly, she pushed him backwards until he felt his bed behind him, and he allowed his knees to bend. "Sit," she ordered, and then she sat sideways beside his injured side, a shallow bowl of warm water and a pile of rags beside her on the bed, one leg folded under her. Niari _tsked_ under her breath. "You should not drag these out so sharply," she scolded lightly, soaking a rag and then pressing it over his wound. He grunted lightly in pain as the water began to soak through his robes and into the wound, loosening the blood naturally. She held the rag firmly, unafraid of him, however, with one hand, while her other hand inspected the tear in the back of his robes and found the other cut. He flinched as she touched it and she murmured an apology and removed her hand to re-soak the rag.

He watched her face as she deftly worked, since there was little else to do as she gingerly eased his shirt away from his injury over the next few minutes, hands working nimbly. He couldn't help but notice that her face was rather pretty, despite deep set eyes and a slight scar beside her nose on her right cheek. She had long eyelashes and full lips. The woman was well aware that her body was one of her best weapons, and she had taught herself to use it so well that it had become a part of her unconscious movements, the way she held herself or glanced around the room. He grimaced inwardly and tore his gaze away, and suddenly the silence in the room began to weigh on his shoulders. As usual, the first words in his mind involved both bragging about his success and insulting the other person.

"Did Al Mualim send you to reward me for a successful mission?" he asked casually, and then, to his shame, the proud Altair Ibn La-Ahad yelped as the woman, fiddling with his robes to see how loose they were, suddenly yanked them free of his skin. He leaped to his feet spitting curses and turned to glare at her.

"Sorry," she apologized, voice in no way contrite. "But that's as loose as they were going to get." She rose from the bed and deposited the used rags on the table. Now that his robes were free, he quickly pulled the top half the rest of the way off and threw the aggravating shirt into a corner, glad to be rid of it, stiff with sweat and blood as it was. He turned to find her watching him, a small vial of salve in hand. Straightening his spine unconsciously, Altair couldn't help the triumphant grin that spread across his face as he watched her take in his muscular chest, mouth pursed thoughtfully.

"See anything you like?" he asked nonchalantly, and she lifted her gaze back to his face shamelessly and walked back towards him. The Assassin regarded her warily for a moment until she lifted an eyebrow in a gesture of innocent curiosity, and then he permitted her to inspect his wound.

"Well well well, someone hit you good," she commented after she prodded his tanned skin a bit harder than was necessary. "Fortunately, it's mostly in the flesh of your shoulder, away from the bones and blood. Just muscle that's severed. You men have such large shoulders," she added, almost to herself. "And no," she continued. "Al Mualim did not send me. I simply observed your wounds and decided to come of my own accord." Her brow furrowed lightly in concentration as she opened the vial she held and began to apply the healing salve to his wound. The sting made his back tense suddenly, but he kept his face blank and clenched his jaw, refusing to make any more sounds of discomfort. Instead, he was surprised at how tall she was. She normally portrayed a feeling of fragility, and he realized for the first time that perhaps he too had been under her spell, seeing only the Niari Ahabhan that she had wanted him to see.

They didn't speak anymore that night. He remained silent and still the rest of the time she worked, as she finished treating his shoulder and applied the salve to his back, and then as she went to the table to retrieve the linen bandages and wrapped his cuts. Then he gingerly sat down on his bed. Niari silently gathered up his dirty robes and the rags and the supplies she had brought, blew out the last candles, and he fell asleep before he heard the door creak closed.

_XXXXX_

Altair woke dizzy and confused. At first the obvious culprit was the sun shining directly into his eyes, but as he attempted to lift a hand to block the offending sunlight, the room spun and his hand seemed to go everywhere except where he told it to, and when he went to sit up in confusion and the room spun so abruptly that nausea struck him hard, he knew. During the night, a fever had set in. And there was nothing the strong Assassin could do about it except use every ounce of his will to turn his back to the sun and pull up the sheets to protect his suddenly cold body. He passed some time—he didn't know if it was hours or minutes—shivering, dozing, and waking to horrible waves of nausea. One time, he thought he woke to a cool, slender hand on his forehead, but with the rest of his delirious dreams he wasn't sure what was reality and what wasn't. Still, that hand was so hot, and he was so cold…he grabbed for the warmth, somehow finding a strength in his weak body, and refused to let go. In fact, he tugged it closer to him, and was rewarded with a wonderful heat spreading through him…He finally slipped fully unconscious.

_XXXXX_

The next time Altair awoke—well and truly conscious—it was to thirst. He closed his mouth and it took several moments before he could call enough moisture to his mouth to lick his lips, and he swallowed several times. His tongue felt oddly thick. Driven to quench his thirst, the man slowly blinked his eyes open, sighing in relief that the sun was no longer pouring into them, but that he was instead staring at his ceiling. What had happened? His memories were all blurry and jumbled together. He turned his head—and found Niari in bed with him, tucked securely against his right side, sleeping with her head on his shoulder, and the Assassin's heart nearly stopped. He glanced down further—no, they both still wore clothes, so he had not missed an encounter between them. That would have been a pity. A twinge from his movements drew his attention to his injured shoulder. It had been rewrapped sometime since he had last seen it. That motion drew his eyes to the pitcher of water set beside the bed, and he was so desperate to reach it that his entire body was moving before he remembered Niari.

But the woman woke the instant he began to lean towards the water, before his hiss as his shoulder protested the movement, and she sat up to lean across him and retrieve it for him. He drank deeply before he could ask her what was going on.

"How long did I sleep for?" he asked when he could finally get words out.

"I found you burning with fever about this time yesterday," she answered, leaning back over him again to put the pitcher back and then retreating to her side of the bed, sitting cross-legged. Her hair was rather messy, tendrils pulled loose from her normally neat hairstyle, and he found it made her face seem more alive than he had ever seen it. "I unwrapped your wounds and found they had festered, cleaned it again, and visited the healer down in the town for more salves—I'm glad you were unconscious," she abruptly interrupted herself. "We force fed you a potion to bring down the fever." She paused. "You were very cold, and you grabbed my hand and asked me not to leave, and we decided it would be best if someone kept watch anyway," she finished explaining. It was odd to see her hesitate, but he sensed it was because she was unsure of his reaction, not because she was ashamed of anything. "I know you were not yourself." He gave a nod and looked around the room. She slipped off the bed. "Well, now that your fever has broken and you have returned to us, I think it's safe to leave you to recover on your own," she said, gathering up the rest of her robes and some more vials. She paused before heading to the door. "Shall I return again today?" He studied her for a second, and then he gave a single nod.

_XXXXX_

Being sick or recovering from injuries had never sat well with Altair. He was a man of action, with a sharp mind, and doing nothing did not sit well with him. Within an hour of Niari's leaving, he was bored. At first he did his best to clean the rest of the dirt from his travels and the sweat from his fever off his body, careful not to jostle the linens wrapped around his wounds. Then he changed clothes, pulling on clean trousers and a loose shirt that fit over the wrappings. There was little to do. He began to clean his blades, which took twice as long with only one hand, and he quickly became frustrated with his lack of ability and set that project aside.

So it was hardly a surprise when Niari returned and found him leaning on the window sill and watching the people moving around outside. His good arm was over his head, braced against the stone wall while his bad arm was held close to his chest. She at least had the decency to knock before opening the door this time.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked as soon as the shock of seeing him upright faded. Jealously flitted through her; men were so much physically stronger than her, and recovery so much faster. She kept that off her face, however, and was pleased at that decision when he turned slowly to face her. Her eyes took in the discarded clothes and the abandoned blades as she walked across to him. "No matter how bored you are, you need to rest. You shouldn't be up yet," she scolded, and paused at the look at his face. "What?" she snapped irritably, feeling heat rise to her face at the intent way he was studying her.

He chuckled quietly. "I've never seen so much emotion on your face before," he said simply. "Dear Niari, are you actually worried about me?" He grinned.

She pursed her lips and forced herself to stare him down, forcing any thoughts about the vibrant color of his eyes down. She admitted, she had been physically attracted to Altair for a very long time, and in her life style physical attraction really was all that mattered; but Niari was resolute in that she got to chose who joined her in bed. It was the only difference between her job and that of a common whore. She straightened her shoulders.

"You are one of the best fighters this Creed has, Altair," she said solemnly. "Of course I am concerned about your well being. Especially now, with the Templars so on guard against us. We cannot lose your skills. Now," she continued, her voice much sterner, "you get back to bed and stay there, or so help me I will tie you down."

A strange light gleamed in his eyes for a split second and he raised an eyebrow as he shoved off of the wall, staggering forward to heed her orders, but letting his movements bring him very, very close to her. His sudden lurch caused her to inhale, and his proximity brought his scent to her—a scent that reminded her of how close she had been to him last night, an experience she wasn't afraid to admit she had greatly enjoyed. Unbidden, her eyes stole down to the skin of his chest shown by his shirt, one she would love to trace her fingertips over…His body really was exceptional, toned and well muscled and brimming with health and strength. Altair bent his head to catch her gaze, and she made herself stare him down without any of her turbulent emotions displayed on her face. "And tell me, dear Niari," he said quietly, breath brushing her face, "what would you do if you had me tied down?"

Without skipping a beat or allowing any trace of surprise or how her heart sped up at the thought, Niari answered him just as confidently and boldly. "I'd fuck you until you had no strength left," she said.

An eyebrow quirked upwards. "Oh, so you think you have more stamina than I do?" he asked, a teasing, challenging edge entering his voice for the first time.

"No, I don't _think_ so," she said, and his brow furrowed in wary confusion for a moment. "I _know_ I do." His face brightened again and one corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile. Then he straightened back to his full height and turned away from her, walking back to his bed, where he had the audacity to lean back against his pillows and offer his wrists to her in a challenge and open invitation.

The woman gave him an incredulous look. "You're still far too weak from the fever," she dismissed. "Were I to enjoy a romp with you, I would want you at your full strength." And she swept across the room and out the door before she gave into her pounding heart and did something that she would regret and he would probably laugh at and use to insult her in the future. And part of her wondered if she had just made a dangerous deal, a part that warred with the lust rising inside of her. She was too caught up in her thoughts to notice the strange mix of surprise, anger, and disappointment that marred Altair's handsome features.

___~You hunted me down  
Like a wolf, a predator  
I felt like a deer in love lights~_

_Altair's return to Masyaf, immediately following the death of Robert de Sable…_

The fortress was in an uproar. Never mind the fortress, the entire city of Masyaf was in chaos. Altair sprinted up the dirt streets of the small city as fast as he could, Robert's words still playing in his head, spurring him onward. He had to reach Al Mualim and confront him before anything worse happened, if anything worse _could_ happen, judging by the smoke rising above the city. How could he have been so blind to do exactly what his enemies wanted all along? He had never felt so stupid in his life. The anger that had been rising since Robert's death fueled him, pushed him onward, ever onward. Surely Al Mualim knew what he would discover when he confronted Robert and would be waiting for him.

What he did not expect was for his brother Assassins to stand in the way.

_You coward, Al Mualim!_ he screamed in his mind, letting his frustration with his incompetence turn to anger at the Assassin's leader—former leader, if he had his way. Altair didn't know how, but he swore that Al Mualim's life would end on his blade today. His anger made his normally forceful attacks even more terrifying as he slammed through his opponents with brute, intimidating force, paying no heed to any danger. Nothing was going to stop him, and anyone in his path would be cut down.

He had never been so happy to see Malik in his life. The other man appeared right at the most opportune moment. Another who had been here since the beginning—seeing his friend—yes, he admitted, he finally considered Malik a friend—strengthened Altair's resolve even more. Now he would not be alone, he would have the knowledge that others were with him as the world went to hell.

And standing in the back of the group, paying more attention to their surroundings than the conversation, was Niari. Hooded head or not, he would recognize her slim figure anywhere, and he begrudgingly respected her prowess, and he felt a bit of pleasure at seeing her as well: her defiance of him was something he looked forward to taking away; he intended to make the woman pay for her teasing arrogance by beating her at her own game, and her dying before he exactly that revenge would have been a pity.

The woman was fully clad in her battle gear, white robes dirty from travelling but mostly free of blood, long sword on her hip, short blade on her back, throwing knives on her shoulder. As if sensing his gaze she turned her head towards him, peering out from under her hood, the barest of smiles pulling up one corner of her mouth, and she gave him a slight nod, which he returned. As the group moved off to do their best to distract the brain-washed Assassins at the rear entrance to the stronghold, he felt his anger settling into place. Instead of charging him on recklessly it gave him a narrow focus, but also caution. People were counting on him. He could not let them down. With a deep breath, the Assassin turned and sprinted up the remainder of the path to the stronghold, fate pulling him and Al Mualim undeniably together, no matter how many mindless slaves and mind tricks the old man tried to throw at him.

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_AN: Italized lyrics are from the song 'She-Wolf' by David Guetta featuring Sia._


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I still don't own AC or Altair.

AN: For those of you waiting for an update for Breaking and Entering, fear not! now that this is out of my head, I should resume work on that fiction. Thanks to everyone's reviews I think I've now got the next part figured out.

**_WARNING! This chapter contains a_ _lemon._**

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_Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.  
–Marquis de Sade_

_Dawn, the morning after Al Mualim's death._

Nothing stirred in the predawn stillness as the line of gray defining the horizon slowly brightened, chasing away the darkness of night. An indistinguishable statue perched on the upper recesses of the Assassin's stronghold above Masyaf, Niari did not move either, save for her perceptive gray eyes, having already held her position for nearly an hour. This was a frequent pastime of hers, to swing out her window early in the morning and climb to the top of the towering fortress, facing east to greet the rising sun, letting the light spill over her and watching as it picked out shapes on the ground in stark relief. It was a habit she enjoyed, both because the gray skies of early morning was her favorite time of day and because she relished in her physical prowess as she scaled the outside of the bastion, fingers deftly finding holds in the spaces between the bricks. It had taken her long years of training to accomplish the feat, and she was proud of it. To her, it was representative of the strength she had gained since joining the Assassins.

A strength that had been the only thing to see her through the past day. It was true that the Creed had never been rocked to its core so thoroughly before. Of course, leaders had been killed before—the Creed trained men how to kill; it was only natural that at some point someone ambitious would use those skills for his own gain. But she had never thought to see it in her lifetime, and she had never thought that Al Mualim's steady and comforting presence could prove to be so horribly _wrong_. She was fortunate—she had not been in Masyaf yesterday morning, having left on a mission in Jerusalem two days prior. She had returned to Masyaf with Malik and his companions when he had caught wind of the disturbance and come to offer assistance—though how exactly Malik had learned about the events at Masyaf, she did not know.

Niari still wasn't entirely sure what had happened in the battle between Altair and Al Mualim. Of course, the man had betrayed them all by working for the Templars, and Altair had slain him, as was expected when one so thoroughly broke the Oath. But all of this business with the 'Piece of Eden'… Something about that relic, a simple ball that could have such an effect on people's minds… She was repulsed by the object. Altair had taken it and stored it away somewhere safe, she knew that. She wasn't sure if she wanted such a thing to continue to exist, but Altair valued freedom over nearly anything else, and he had been as repulsed as she was. Arrogant Altair might be, but she trusted him not to make Al Mualim's mistakes. He was the natural one to take over the mantle of Mentor now that Al Mualim was gone; he had led them through this disaster and even before that many of the other Assassins were used to following his orders. She did not envy him his current position one bit. He now had an unruly and chaotic Order to control and convince to follow him.

The gray had lightened considerably now, and the slightest tinges of other colors—pink and gold—were present now. She let her gaze drop from the sunrise to the sprawling city below as the inhabitants began to rise. Only her eyes moved, however, her balance not so much as shifting. Being inconspicuous—that was something Niari had succeeded at her entire life.

Because she couldn't deny that she had lusted after Altair for many, many years, the same way she had lusted after many men, although he presented a challenge that certainly captivated her a bit more than the others did. He had always made it clear to her, when he had even noticed her at all, which was only in the past two years or so, as her own status within the Order had grown, that her 'whorish' activities were repugnant to him, and his insults had not made staying in his presence very rewarding—not that Niari did not have a thick skin, but that didn't mean she subjected herself to insults. Besides, there were other Assassins who were _very_ grateful for her presence, and she was never lacking for bed partners as equally as lust worthy as Altair. His subtly changing attitude over the past few weeks had made her wary, and that was why she had not taken what had seemed like an invitation in his room while recovering from his fever, because for the first time in years Niari did not understand Altair Ibn La-Ahad. Her power lay in knowledge. Her job, her most valuable asset, lay in reading men, understanding their wants and needs and how to use them to get what she wanted, and she had seen Altair's kind many times before.

Dammit, she should have fucked him a week ago, when she had the chance, and to hell with the consequences! At least then she would have the memories to dwell on, or better, something to gloat over him, to make him another of her conquests. Now…

Now, there had been a change in power, and for her to enter his bed could seem to the others to be an attempt to gain favor from the new leader of the Creed. For the first time in a very, very long time, the recent events had thrown Niari's emotions into an uproar. Perhaps she was fixating on Altair at the moment as some sort of savior, a rock in a storm, the one unchanging constant? Her mind seemed numb. She didn't know, but she guessed it would be some weeks before everything went back to normal. No, that was wrong; things would _never_ be back to normal. A new normal, maybe, but one did not learn about a power such as the Apple and then not have their entire worldview shaken. No wonder she had not slept well the night before, lying in a strange doze filled with whirling dreams.

The first rays of the sun suddenly and gently spilled over the horizon, and Niari narrowed her eyes to a squint. She remained there for several more minutes, watching the golden light spread across the landscape before her, fairly chasing the darkness into a few stark shadows, and the silence of the dawn finally broke with an eagle's cry. Then she unfolded herself nimbly from her position and swung herself off the roof, climbing the walls back down to her window.

Unfortunately, the dawn had not been as calming as it normally was—that might be expected though, as yesterday's events were anything but normal. As such, she remained distracted as her sure feet found her window sill and she crouched and slid inside, and so she didn't notice the silent dark shadow standing near the door until she had taken two steps into the room. She froze as her eyes landed on Altair.

The taller Assassin stood near the door to her room, though it was closed. He had changed in the dark robes of mentor already, she noted. She was annoyed to find the private sanctum of her room breached, but she kept the tension out of her shoulders and face, presenting him with a calm and curious but wary façade. There was a strange tension in his shoulders, and he was not taking his gaze off of her, though she could not see what sort of expression lay on his face due to the darkness in his hood.

"Altair," she greeted nonchalantly, and continued across her room towards the lone table, as she had intended upon stepping off the sill, pushing her hood back as she went. He moved forward as well, closing the distance between them—stalking towards her, she realized quite suddenly, and she froze, her next sentence dying on her lips as she tried to discern his intention behind his threatening manner. "Altair," she said again, this time a warning as she took two steps back, and this time she could see a smirk under his hood. Anger blossomed in her chest, and she straightened her shoulders and stopped her retreat, reaching to her back to grasp the hilt of her short blade.

He moved faster than she did. As she was still braced for his next move, not wanting to strike but unafraid to defend herself, he closed the distance between them with a sudden leap, immediately twisting and shoving her up against the wall, holding her there with his stronger body. She managed to unsheathe her blade but had no time to attempt to dissuade him with it before he gripped her wrist and twisted until she dropped the hilt, and the blade clattered to the stone floor. Niari took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down, despite the shiver sent down her spine as she felt his hard body against her own. The intense look in his eyes was unnerving, as always, and she turned her face away to stare over his shoulder, trying to think of a way to break his hold on her—and nothing came to mind. The man was much stronger than her. For now she would have to play his game. He clearly did not intend to kill her, or he would not have even let her see him in the room.

Altair was pleased. He had Niari off-balance for perhaps the first time. The wary look on her face—true respect, true _fear_ of him, also for the first time—was quite enough to get his blood hot, but now, feeling her body pressed against him so that the loose robes could no longer hide her shapely woman's curves, he knew he was going to enjoy this encounter. But he wanted it to last as long as possible, now that he had control of the situation, the upper hand. Sex was only half the fun. Toying with her was the other. He did not just want to take, although he would, but he wanted to wear down her reserve, to make her _choose_ to be with him, make her want it, make her commit. Defiance was the challenge Niari presented Altair, and he was going to strip it from her.

The woman was still fast on her feet—figuratively speaking, of course. "Do you normally disrupt the privacy of your acquaintances?" she asked, but though her voice was steady, her eyes only glanced at his face before flicking away again. His smirk widened infinitesimally into a small smile, and he was pleased with the small bit of worry that flitted across her face.

"As I recall," he started, voice quieter than normally due to their nearness, "someone was very vocal as to her opinion of my stamina not very long ago. I'd very much like to have that opinion disproven."

Niari felt her breath catch. A part of her had begun to suspect his intention may be such, and quivered with excitement, but she held that part deep inside her. She _knew_ Altair; he always had several motives for everything he did, and she would discover them all or damn it all, her training had all been for naught. Although part of her was remembering her lament not long ago on the rooftop for not having him when she could, and she certainly wanted him more now that she could feel how nice his body felt against hers, her mind remained in control.

The war between body and intellect was one she had won long ago, when an assassination depended on a clear mind no matter what was sheathed between her legs. His breath on her cheek and neck and the rumble from his chest as he spoke caused her gut to tighten, but she fought down her ardor, as much as she didn't want to. And why should she? Perhaps she could have a bit of entertainment from this too, then. How fun it would be to see the great Altair Ibn-La'Ahad fall to seduction, like any normal man?

Instead, she forced a smile on her face. "Did I damage your pride, then? Odd. I didn't know you cared so about the blade between your legs. In fact, I thought perhaps you practiced with your steel so much to make up for the fact that you lacked the equipment with which to fuck someone."

Absolute fury filled Altair at her insolence, and the triumphant smile she wore with it. He hissed curses at her through his teeth and pushed her harder into the wall, wedging a knee between her thighs, the motion serving to prove to her that his natural manhood did indeed exist, the hardness and heat felt clearly through both of their trousers. The woman grunted, as her shoulders and spine ground painfully into the walls, her smile dissolving as he pressed his forehead against hers, as she concentrated to hide her lust for him. "I assure you," he said, slowly, deliberately, "I do in fact possess the means to fuck you, and I am going to show you _exactly_ how I like to do it."

"You forget," she retorted just as strongly, "that I only bed the men I _choose_. I would not make such a claim if I did not truly possess the means to resist when under pressure."

Instead of further anger, as she expected, however, his smirk returned. "Oh, I have not forgotten, dear Niari. I fully intend to make you _beg_ for me." And he crashed his lips down on hers before she could fully comprehend his meaning or that the way his forehead pressed the back of her head against the wall prevented her from turning to avoid him.

Despite her words meant to spite him, Niari had never doubted that a man of Altair's age, attractiveness, and confidence had enjoyed the companionship of many women over his lifetime, and the commanding way he kissed confirmed it. There was little passion in their embrace; that hardly surprised her, this was Altair after all. His kiss was hard and rough, straightforward with little finesse. He pressed down on her mouth almost painfully, relentless, dominating, and completely in control, and it sent a shiver down her spine. When a woman was as strong as she, and normally courted drunkards, it was rare to find a man that took charge, and she found herself growing wet after only a few moments.

Altair was completely in control of their kiss, and he was as deft with his mouth as with his hidden blade. He muscled her mouth open, his tongue immediately sweeping into hers in a thorough investigation. His sheer strength, his sheer masculinity, was an incredible turn on for her, Niari discovered. Despite his roughness and the pain from her shoulders and head where they met the wall, she was immensely enjoying his kiss.

But. She was not about to just give into him, to become another conquest. She understood now. She presented a challenge to him, and Altair had been trained to overcome challenges his entire life. They fuelled his passion. The women he normally took were completely dazzled by his attractive body and his confident, compelling demeanor, and were so pleased to have his attention that they did whatever he wanted. He'd never had a woman trained as an Assassin as himself, one just as confident and used to being in control as himself, but instead of shying away from the fire, Altair's natural aggression demanded that he control it.

Niari could not deny she was incredibly aroused by Altair. But her pride demanded that she not be used and tossed aside, but hold her own. With that thought in mind, she closed her teeth on his invading tongue.

She did not draw blood, as his reactions were still sharp and fast and he darted out of reach before she did much damage with something akin to a growl, and she felt a thrill of satisfaction. It was very short lived, however, as he glared at her and then ducked his head again, and her breath caught as his lips caught her earlobe, followed quickly by his teeth, grazing across her sensitive skin.

Her head was beginning to get foggy, but she had worked under these conditions before. She could not let him win, even though she _really_ wanted to fuck him right now. So be it, why not? But if she was going down, then she was going to make sure he wanted her just as badly, and that was something else she had ample practice in doing.

Using all of her flexibility, she slipped a hand between their bodies, sliding down in order to press against his trousers, rubbing her palm against his erection and closing her fingers around as much as she could reach. She was rewarded almost immediately—the man jerked in such a way that he pressed himself against her hand, and she almost thought she heard him moan, but it was eclipsed as he dropped his mouth lower suddenly and nipped hard at her neck, dragging her skin through his teeth. At the same time, the leg between her own thighs pressed up harder her, rubbing her most sensitive spot, and she couldn't resist a shudder.

Without removing his body or mouth from being pressed against hers, his hands began to undo the catches of her robes. Her hood was already thrown back, but he worked to loosen the laces and reveal more of her neck to his mouth. His lips and teeth seared a line down her skin to the divot at the base of her throat as it was revealed. She was certain he was going to leave bruises but she did not care. Her own hands began to mimic him, unwilling to be outdone, pushing his hood off his head and deftly unlacing the front of his tunic until she could slip her hands inside and trace the planes of his chest, muscles rippling beneath his tanned skin.

Turning her head, she dragged her own teeth down his neck, nipping at the flexing tendons. She felt him shift and his hands left her body, and a moment later his vanguards—including his hidden blade—clattered to the floor. Niari wasted no time sliding his tunic open wider and then off his broad shoulders, leaving him bare to the waist. Her mouth followed along his collar bone, and she felt her breath coming faster as her fingers explored the corded muscles down his back and sides. Altair's body was magnificent.

The taller Assassin had opened her own tunic to the waist, and suddenly pulled her arms away from him, growling quietly in frustration as he began tugging on one of her vanguards. Niari pulled the hand away from him impatiently and unbuckled the leather herself, letting hers fall to the floor beside his. Altair grunted in satisfaction at the sound and immediately yanked her tunic off her shoulders and stripped it from her body, leaving her only in the makeshift brassiere of linen strips she wrapped around herself to provide support. His mouth fastened onto hers again, pressing her hard against the stone while his hands explored her brassiere with jerky movements born of frustration, until he finally managed to find the knot that held it and dragged the offending material from her, exposing her breasts.

Immediately his mouth left hers and she gasped as his lips closed over her left nipple, arching her back into him, incredibly pleased to have a skilled lover. His tongue danced over her skin, tracing circles around her pert flesh before his teeth nipped her and she groaned, head thrown back. Without wasting a moment, Altair slid his mouth across her skin to find her other pink nipple and suck it into his mouth, his tongue artfully teasing her again before his teeth tugged on her nipple.

His mouth still fastened to her breast, his hands skimmed down her ribs, enjoying the smooth, soft skin and the curve of her slender waist, to stroke her hips, and the feel of his rough hands on the sensitive skin there sent shivers down her spine. In one smooth movement he undid the clasp of her trousers almost before she realized what he was tugging on and yanked the white fabric and her undergarments down her legs, revealing more smooth, toned skin to the calluses on his fingers. Without anything holding them up her trousers fell to the floor and she stepped out of them, kicking them to the side. The taller Assassin's hands were on her immediately, running down and tracing her thighs and then she gasped as one slipped between her bare thighs.

Altair paused his ministrations on her breast, leaning his head back in order to watch her face as he worked. He had greatly enjoyed stripping her clothes from her, revealing her to him piece by piece, and she wanted him _badly_ now. She was still pinned against the wall, head thrown back in a way that pressed her breasts up, and her eyes were half lidded as he ran a finger over her folds. He felt a triumphant smirk spread across his face as she quivered in front of him, completely at his mercy. He enjoyed this more with every passing moment. He was pleased to find her already soaking wet from his previous attention to the rest of her body. Her stroked her silkiness slowly, teasing his finger back and forth. Niari groaned and thrust her hips against his hand, but he pulled back as she did so, denying her. With a cry of despair she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his forehead against hers, one hand running through his hair and the other digging her nails into his muscular shoulders. "Altair," she moaned his name breathlessly.

Niari's body was exquisite, tanned and slender. In truth she had too many scars and muscle compared to his normal taste in women, but at the moment he hardly cared, his member throbbing painfully behind his trousers. Their eyes met as he found the heat at the juncture of her long legs and he explored her wetness, causing her body to quiver in pleasure. He leaned forward, mouth near her ear. "Beg," he ordered simply, voice deep, and she shivered. She wanted, very, _very_ badly, to do as he said, and feel his fingers moving against her again. But that little word, and all it's connotations and the defeat it would symbolize, revolted her.

Niari was in heaven, but she refused to let Altair have all the fun. Through the haze of lust she managed to slid her hands down his body to his belt, nimbly undoing the leather holding his sword to his hip—had that stayed on so long?—and sending that to join the disarray of articles on the floor, and then she opened his trousers and slipped a hand inside, immediately meeting his hard flesh and firmly closing her fingers around him. To her joy, Altair actually froze and then groaned against her neck , nipping forcefully at her skin, and he pushed against her. Niari deftly stroked his length and felt him shudder, and he couldn't wait any longer. He needed release, now, and nothing was blocking him anymore. He kicked his trousers off hurriedly, and Niari's hands slid down, exploring his hips and closing on his manhood again.

Suddenly his hands moved to the backs of her thighs and he lifted her roughly, sliding her up the hard stone wall, holding her up with his own hips and then forcefully pulling her legs around his waist. She gasped as she felt his manhood pressing against her heat. Altair leaned into her, his tip teasing them both as he pushed against her heat. Unwilling to go slow, Niari rolled her hips and thrust herself onto him, prompting a groan from them both as he stretched and filled her. He was surprised at her eagerness and angry at himself that she had managed to gain the upper hand, however briefly. Altair refused to let her set the pace, his strong hands settling firmly on her hips, fingers digging in to keep her still and give him leverage.

Now that he was sheathed inside her he wasn't able to hold back, and he began thrusting into her in earnest. His strength would have shoved her up the wall had he not held her in place. Her nails dug into his back, needing something to anchor herself among the tide of need coursing through her, and pulled his forehead against hers, lips parted as they both panting, breath mixing. He filled her fully, stretching her pleasurably, and every movement hit a place deep inside her that was quickly unraveling any sense of their surroundings, obliterating every thought but the man grunting against her. She arched her back, throwing her head back as his movements tore a strangled cry from her throat. Within moments both of them were panting hard, straining towards the pleasure they could feel spreading from the slick friction as he thrust into her. The rhythm increased to a desperate tempo.

Altair could feel release building at the base of his spine, the heat from their union spreading and growing to consume him. His throbbing length, buried deep in her, was aching for release, and he didn't plan on denying that instinct. He no longer remembered the real reason he had come here; his attention was completely focused on the feelings coursing through him and the woman against him from which they stemmed. Bending down, he kissed her roughly again, but it was short-lived as they were both breathing hard. Frantic for release, Altair thrust into her harder, the way she writhed under him and groaned encouragement making his head spin. Her inner muscles jerked and clenched around him as she arched her back, and the sensations sent him over the edge.

The tangled Assassins came together, crying out unintelligibly as their bodies climaxed, shuddering uncontrollably as their orgasms rolled through them. Altair collapsed against her, letting the wall hold them up, hands releasing her hips and coming forward to catch himself against the wall. Her body suddenly boneless, Niari relaxed against him, head on on his shoulder. Both of them were still gasping for breath, dripping in sweat and still shaking slightly. Leaning down, he kissed her neck, tasting the sweat on her skin. Niari's arms came up slowly, tracing over the planes of his back, still enjoying the feeling of the hot body pressed against her, at seeing the man under the hood. She had lusted after this man for so long, hoping the having him just once would satisfy her longing; now that she knew what being with him was like she wanted him even more.

After another moment the man pulled back, carefully pulling himself out of her, and set her on her feet, hands still resting on her waist. Their bodies disconnected smoothly, and her breath hitched as she suddenly felt empty. In truth, the Assassin was far more spent and satisfied than he had been in quite a while, not that he was about to tell the woman next to him that. Now that the lust was clearing from his mind, he remembered the real reason he had come, . The fact that she had not given into him was not lost on him and he was terribly angry at himself for failing. Eyes narrowed, the taller Assassin glared down at her. Her hands still on his shoulders, Niari returned the look just as fiercely.

"Do you ever do as you're told?" he demanded angrily, voice gravelly.

"Do you always have to be in charge?" she retorted back quickly, not giving in an inch. They still stood on even ground.

His fingers tightened on her waist. "This isn't over," he said quietly in what he undoubtedly believed was a threatening tone, but it only made her smirk. She knew Altair. The fact that she had made him want her and lose control hung unspoken in the air between them. Finally, he released her and turned away to find his clothes, and she reached down to retrieve her trousers from near her feet, both of them knowing that nothing had changed.

_~The thrill of the kill  
You feel is a sin  
__I lay with the wolves  
Alone, it seems,  
I thought I was part of you_~

* * *

_AN: Italized lyrics are from the song 'She-Wolf' by David Guetta featuring Sia. Not sure about the song lyrics, just trying something new. Hope you enjoyed, please review! I would love suggestions for how to improve. Even though it's a one-shot and marked as complete, I could probably find a way to continue if anyone wants some more. ;) Let me know!_


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